


Refraction

by Nagaem_C



Series: The Sewing Box: Needles and Pins One-Shots [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:51:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1215070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The odd reactions Anna provoked from him were a puzzle, and what was the <i>point</i> of a puzzle but to be solved?</p><p> <b>(Takes place during Chapter 23 of A Thread To Hold; not a stand-alone)</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Refraction

**Author's Note:**

> During Chapter 23 of A Thread to Hold, John and Sherlock join Anna and Greg for dinner, and John urges Sherlock not to be distant:
> 
> "Are you going to be on another planet this whole night?"

  
**Refraction**  
 _1 January 2015_

.

 

New Year's Day had been bright, sunny and practically warm: a promising omen for the year ahead, if one went in for such ridiculous folkloric views. Within an hour after sunset, however, the temperature had dropped drastically from its six degree high. As Sherlock followed his partner up the walk to Anna's small concrete patio, he saw a slight shiver run through John's frame.

For a moment, he felt something almost akin to guilt at having asked John to spend so much time with him outside that afternoon; though it had been markedly warmer, the aerodynamics of Chicago's downtown streets always gave the lake-bound wind a harsher bite. The feeling was dismissed almost immediately, however. _He's surely healthier than I am, and I've spent hours outdoors since last night with no ill effects._ With a small sniff of disapproval at his own weak sentimentality, he turned his attention to the delay still lengthening between John's knock and the answering of the door. Sherlock cocked his head and stepped forwards, standing close enough that John would be pressed against him, knees to neck, if the shorter man but rocked back on his heels— _and where had that thought come from, for god's sake?_ Listening intently, he detected faint strains of music through the door, and then the high, tinkling edge of Anna's laughter; at last, Lestrade's heavy footsteps hurried toward the front room, accompanied by a laugh of his own.

The inspector's face was arranged into a brightly innocent expression when he finally opened the door. "Ah, sorry lads! We were in the kitchen, didn't hear."

John moved forward into the house without hesitation, leaving Sherlock to wonder whether the warmth of the proximity had been as noticeable and distracting to the doctor as it was to him. He shook the thought forcefully from his head as he entered, hanging his coat with a mild reproof for their friend. "Save the prevarication, Lestrade, it's obvious you did hear."

"Yeah. Well." The DI had the good grace to look chastened for a second or two, but he couldn't hold back his smile for long.

 

.

 

The stereo system newly added to the dining room was playing something atrocious and dated. As Sherlock entered the room, he could feel the cheerful pop music taking up residence in his molars. _Something she enjoyed in university, no doubt...the nineties were largely barren of good taste, after all._

"Hi guys, Happy New Year! I hope you both had a good day!" Anna wiped her hands on a towel as she emerged from the kitchen, looking slightly flushed and quite pleased; her expression was an obvious confirmation as to the source of Lestrade's good humour.

She threw a friendly glance to Sherlock as she passed him, but made no further comment until she had made a quick substitution of the discs in her CD changer, setting the new selections to shuffle. "Dinner should be ready in just a few minutes," she announced, then left the room once more.

Sherlock recognised the first recording within four bars: a Vivaldi recorder concerto, performed beautifully by Michaela Petri. His teeth immediately ceased grinding together; he stood at the far wall of the room, focused idly on a framed photograph of Anna with what were presumably her late husband and her middle sibling, as the gentle ebb and flow of the music soothed his nerves. For he _was_ nervous, he realised: throughout the day's activities, he had been chewing over the woman's advice, and considering how best to approach a discussion with John on the matter of their relationship. So far he had managed to remain silent on the topic, and focus on the arguably more important tasks at hand pertaining to their case; still, the window of comfortable delay was dwindling rapidly. If Sherlock failed to bring the subject of last night's kiss up himself, it would be sure to come up in a manner that would be unacceptably beyond his control.

He stood in thought, letting the other two men converse softly behind him. Lestrade removed himself into the kitchen with an offer of wine just as Sherlock turned away from the photograph and moved to seat himself. He adjusted the crimson place mat, straightening it to align properly with the table edge; as its texture played across his outstretched fingertips, a stream of deductions followed automatically.

_Linen, slubbed and rustic, but high thread-count; chosen for both quality and practicality. Purchased approximately ten years ago, slightly faded on one side by sun—the dining room had a west-facing window, and the table remained set with these mats for approximately one third of each year._

Aside from the sun damage, the mats had been kept in immaculate condition, except that the one before him had been stained by a scribble of marker pen, and there had been only a perfunctory effort made to wash it out. Staring down at the childish mark and thinking back to the information he'd gleaned from the Skype recording, Sherlock suddenly caught a flash of insight that went beyond the dry details.

_The stain is relatively recent, six to ten months old at most—and there is no sun fading on the ink. Her nephew lived nearby and visited frequently; usually she monitored his activities closely, and moved the place mats out of the way before he took up his colouring...this time, however, she was distracted and emotional, unable to focus on the child. She stopped trying to remove the mark after very little effort; quite soon after this, she packed away all of her belongings and moved from the home she'd shared with her husband, making her plans to leave the country..._

Intrigued by the scene playing out in his mind, the detective hardly registered the movement going on around him; he tuned out the auditory distractions completely. Objectively, of course, his eyes remained open, and so he saw Anna enter the room, loaded down with stacked dishes; he saw John eagerly jump into action to help set the table; but he let it all drift past his field of vision, unconcerned. When a place setting appeared on the mat in front of him, it simply gave him a new set of data points upon which to focus. He did so, with interest.

Sherlock had, on numerous occasions, analyzed furnishings and tableware to determine the personalities, motivations and relationships of victims and suspects. This was not much different, and in fact the mental exercise was made easier by virtue of the fact that he already knew so much of this woman's personal traits and habits. Here on the table, and in the other items which had been added to this small home since he was here less than twelve hours ago, the detective could clearly deduce many of the deeper stories behind Anna Clark. He was frankly surprised at himself for being so eager to learn them.

 

.

 

A gentle jostle to his knee under the table brought him out of his thoughts. "Hey."

"Hm?"

Blue eyes fixed on his expectantly, glancing away and back repeatedly as John poured three glasses of red wine for the table. "Are you going to be on another planet this whole night?"

Sherlock paused before making a reply. Sorting through the influx of new information, he picked out a handful of points for further consideration before tucking the rest away. "I'm thinking. Is there a problem?"

"Look, I'm used to this; but the fact remains we're guests, tonight. It seems like Anna went to a lot of trouble here, and I'd really rather you not upset her."

 _Upset her?_ Sherlock knew that he had upset her, when he had insensitively brought up the topic of her friend's drug problem. And he'd angered her once, early in their acquaintance, by deliberately prying into her sexual relationship with Lestrade. John was mistaken, however, if he believed Anna would truly be upset by his flatmate's usual behaviour. Sherlock was suddenly certain of that, although he didn't yet understand _why._

John moved the wineglass from his own place to Sherlock's. "I'm not saying you have to load up your plate, or put on an act...just, she likes you an awful lot. It'd be nice if you were present," he reasoned softly, reaching over to retrieve and pour the fourth glass for himself.

Sherlock offered no immediate comment. As they sat together in quiet, listening to the others working in the kitchen, he dove once more into the maze of his thoughts. The odd reactions Anna provoked from him were a puzzle, and what was the _point_ of a puzzle but to be solved?

 

.

 

 _Why, exactly, do I find myself identifying with this woman,_ wondered Sherlock, _in a way I never have with any other female acquaintances or friends?_ She was not brilliant and challenging, as Irene had been. She possessed few specialised skills to make her a useful colleague, as Molly was. And as far as the idea of respect for Lestrade's relationship with her, well—Sherlock had made no pretence of fondness at any point for the man's ex-wife, and no amount of sentimentality, then or now, would cause him to alter his own opinions purely for the sake of Lestrade. From a strictly logical standpoint, there was little reason for Sherlock to regard this sheltered, suburban American woman with such an intensity as he had found himself displaying here.

But Anna had immediately set herself apart from so many other women, in that she had exhibited neither blatant distaste nor sexual attraction to Sherlock upon first meeting him. Neither had she changed her opinion of him drastically once she'd talked with him more; her amused fondness for him had apparently deepened over time, but on the whole she was remarkably constant. She'd easily accepted his unique, abrasive personality almost from the start, and seemed to have understood without effort that his way of relating to emotions required a cerebral approach. As well, Sherlock perceived that she instilled a sense of harmony among his other companions, not to mention the way she and Lestrade appeared to have been formed specifically to complement one another. _She's got a measure of John's amusing companionship, though of course without the myriad redeeming traits that only he embodies. She's got Molly's perceptive competence, without her shyness or horrid attempts at small talk...Lestrade's forthright honesty, without his self-pity or his parental urges...Mrs Hudson's caring acceptance, without her flightiness or scolding._ Truly, Anna was not brilliant but certainly intelligent, not exceptional but undeniably interesting—all in all, a surprising and wholly unexpected source of comfort.

Blinking at the wave of realisation that had passed over him in a matter of seconds, Sherlock deliberately allowed his posture to loosen, and put out a hand to carefully take up the glass of wine John had allotted him. His friend's words from only moments before repeated in his mind, then, as if providing the final argument in his proof. _"She likes you an awful lot."_

"I like her too," he finally answered his partner, bringing the fine cut crystal up before his face to peer through it introspectively.

"I know you do."

Sherlock turned the delicate stem of the glass between his fingertips, tilting it upward to let light catch in the facets of the bowl and glow through the deep red wine. With the moving play of light, a spectrum of alternative possibilities spread instantly before his eyes, fragmentary and sparkling within a hundred blood-red rainbows:

_—Her husband has his latent heart defect diagnosed, and his untimely death is prevented: Anna lives out many more pleasant years in Ohio with him._  
 _—Anna fails to adequately manage her financial situation after her husband's passing, and does not travel overseas._  
 _—In planning her travels, Anna finds too few available slots in the classes at the Royal School of Needlework, and changes her destination to another city instead._  
 _—Andy Hardwick decides to rekindle contact with Anna before his final decline, and she cancels her trip to give him support._  
 _—Andy does not get in touch, but in fact overdoses earlier, with a similar result._

The quicksilver flashes of potentiality narrowed inwards as Sherlock twisted his glass from side to side.

_—Anna studies her maps of London carefully, and does not lose her way; she enjoys her uneventful holiday and returns home refreshed._  
 _—Lestrade meets her, but fails to work up the courage to ask her to dinner._  
 _—The pair meet, and they date, but Anna does not sprain her ankle on Baker Street, and neither enters 221B nor checks out of her rooming house; Lestrade remains utterly chivalrous and cowardly, and the relationship fizzles within weeks._  
 _—The pair date, Anna falls, she goes home with Lestrade—but whatever disagreement sets them back after that first night prompts her to find a new hotel; the relationship does not recover from it._  
 _—They date throughout her time in London, but Anna is unhappy with the idea of a long distance relationship, and she breaks it off before flying home._

Shaken, Sherlock lowered the crystal as Anna and Lestrade came back in to serve dinner. His skin suddenly felt too small, somehow, and his throat was tight; he was painfully aware that if any one factor had changed, the man seated at his side would never have received the confession of his sentiment, and would most certainly not have brought himself to admit reciprocal feeling. Recalling the tension and animosity that had been so frequent between them since his return, he doubted the likelihood that the situation could have improved much on its own. He and John had actually been interrupted in the middle of a vicious little row, on that afternoon in September—John had snatched up the files for Lestrade and stomped downstairs with them to get away from Sherlock, and had certainly not planned to bring guests upstairs. _I truly have Anna to be thankful for,_ he mused, glancing from the large bowl of fragrant pasta to the smiling faces of the others at the dinner table.

Laughing warmly, Anna extended her glass. "To the New Year, and to friends," she pronounced.

His perception still sharpened to an ultra-fine point, Sherlock experienced the celebratory toast as if in slow motion. He observed Lestrade leaning forward to join in, grinning around the table at his friends with an unashamed sparkle in his eyes. He saw John tilt his head toward the older man, parting his lips in a more reserved smile that was no less genuine: it pulled deep, friendly creases into his cheeks as he raised his own wineglass. And, finally, he considered Anna—artistic, loyal, sharp-witted, utterly _singular_ Anna Clark—who in that perfect, crystalline moment turned fully to face Sherlock, beaming at him with an expression of pure acceptance and understanding.

Sherlock felt the corners of his own lips turn upwards as his glass rang a sweet, clear tone against hers.

 

\-- _fin_ \--

 


End file.
